


#The Best Revenge

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jack still has feelings for Kent but is oblivious about it, Jealousy, Kent gets a happy ending, Kentara is endgame, M/M, Moving On, No Homophobia AU, Recovery, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: Kent goes first overall in the draft. Jack goes to Samwell. As far as Jack's concerned, the split should cement the permanent end of the infamous Parson-Zimmermann hockey duo.But then Kent keeps showing up at Samwell to rub his success in Jack's face. And he keeps on winning over Jack's friends so that they all feelsorryfor him. And then he gets engaged to the captain of the Bruins, so Jack constantly has to glimpse snippets of their dates on the evening news or in the Boston newspaper.It's all a scheme to make Jack jealous, of course. What else could it be?-----Or, the one where Kent moves on from Jack, gets his life together, and gets his happy ending, but Jack is convinced it's all a scheme to get back at him.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Zdeno Chara, past Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann - Relationship
Comments: 40
Kudos: 49
Collections: The Parse Posi Posse's Place phor Phics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For serious, I've always wanted to write about Kent hooking up with Chara (who seems super nice), and somehow Jack ended up being the one to narrate their tale of epic romance. I'm on [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to share your own Kent/hockey dude thoughts.
> 
> Also, a big thanks to imafriendlydalek for betaing this fic. I couldn't have done it without you!❤️

In a world where Jack had a fraction of regret about how loudly he shouted at Kent when Kent showed up at his dorm out of the blue to talk to him, it was because Shitty’s attitude toward him for the next few days became distinctly cool. 

Usually Shitty lounged around their shared room during his downtime, offering up weed-induced musings for Jack’s consideration or quoting sometimes irritating bits of wisdom from authors Jack had never read whenever Jack took his turn in continuing the conversation by replying. Truthfully, Jack wasn’t sure if he actually enjoyed Shitty’s presence or not, but he did appreciate the constancy of it. There was something very comforting in his behavior being as predictable as it was, and Jack welcomed the routine. The world just seemed concrete and navigable when he could open his mouth to speak and already anticipate the type of response Shitty would offer. 

But after coming home one day to find Jack screaming at a silent Kent (and truthfully, screaming was the least Kent deserved), Shitty’s behavior wasn’t predictable any longer, and he didn’t spend nearly as much time in their room. In fact, he seemed to make a point of spending the following week anyplace else.

“Just a precaution, brah,” he told Jack, a distinct edge to his voice, when Jack commented on the change five days later. “You know, just so I don’t interrupt you again when you’re yelling ad hominem attacks at an old friend who’s nice enough to visit you.” He sent a meaningful look square at Jack—Shitty had always hated personal insults, especially in politics, ranting to Jack several times about politicians continuing to use them, outraged that it distracted from genuine issues.

“I didn’t want him here. I didn’t invite him,” Jack retorted, because he hadn’t. And it didn’t matter if seeing Kent again brought heat to stir in his stomach, if the familiar sight of his ratty flannel and worn T-shirt that he still wore despite being a millionaire sent a flood of nostalgia, one that was more sweet than bitter, rushing through him. “Plus, you didn’t hear what he said to me.”

Shitty didn’t even dignify him with a verbal response, just arched a skeptical eyebrow before turning away from him to pull on his shoes and sweatshirt.

Just as well that Shitty hadn’t heard Kent offering him to make him an A of the Aces, to sign him with his team the moment Jack finished the year at Samwell. Unless someone knew Kent, no one could realize how infuriating his offers of help could be, like he thought he could sweep in and solve everyone’s problems. Like he could solve all of _Jack’s_ problems, as if Jack weren’t already trying to solve them himself. No, Kent and his presumptuous savior complex never let him think anyone else could do a thing for themselves.

Kent wanted to be everyone’s hero. He loved being liked. Fuck if Jack was going to give him that ego boost. He wasn’t some kind of improvement project for Kent to mold into an NHler in his spare time. He could do that himself.

That night, while Shitty was probably making a circuit of the various weekend parties, Jack stayed in, stretched out on his narrow dorm bed. A documentary on Iwo Jima played dimly in the background on his TV, but Jack ignored it in favor of scrolling through several websites on his phone. Namely, Kent’s Instagram and Twitter. 

Jack knew himself well enough to recognize that he was looking for something. He couldn’t name what, though. Proof, maybe, that he could then show Shitty and make him see beyond a doubt that it was Kent who was the asshole here.

Instead, he found lots of photos of Kent’s Aces teammates (that Jeff Troy in particular seemed to show up a lot), cats, various well-known sights from the cities Kent travelled to, as well as the occasional picture of restaurant food. (Why the hell did people bother with that?)

But the image that gave him the most pause wasn’t the one of Kent and Troy shirtless and lounging together on a pool raft shaped like a pair of angel wings. Instead, it was the one dated the same day that Kent visited Jack. The two occupants of the photo were none other than Kent and Zdeno Chara, the Boston Bruins captain. They were both in suits and appeared to be having dinner together at some ritzy restaurant that was all cream-colored furniture and gold gilt on the walls.

Photography had always been an interest of Jack’s, and he wanted to scoff at this snapshot for its composition, because it looked like some kind of stock photo sold by Getty Images or something. Neither Chara nor Kent was looking at the camera. Instead, they were both looking at each other. Since the angle of the shot was vaguely positioned over one of Chara’s shoulders, only about half of his face was visible, but it seemed like he was smiling at Kent. Since Jack barely followed the Bruins and had never seen any of Chara’s press beyond the snippets he’d incidentally glimpsed on TV, he was reduced to guessing from body language, but he thought that it looked like Chara was relaxed and enjoying Kent’s company. 

But there could be no doubt about the expression on Kent’s face. With the way he was gazing at Chara, fruity cocktail lifted in one hand as if he were specifically toasting him, and the smile on his face, soft and fond and brimming with affection, it was clear that what he felt for the other captain was far more than just respect for a veteran hockey player. 

An unexpectedly sharp spike of anger lanced through Jack at the sight, and he had to fight to tamp it down.

It was because Kent was living the life Jack himself should have, Jack told himself firmly. There was Kent, enjoying the glamour and grit that came with being an NHL wunderkind, while Jack was still at Samwell, trying desperately to reshape a woefully inadequate D1 team that needed drastic help if they wanted to make it to the Frozen Four.

And Jack wanted to get to the Frozen Four. He wanted to step out onto the ice and remind everyone that he was Jack Zimmermann, that he may not be in the NHL, but he was still _talent._

He should be strategizing. Not concentrating on what Kent was doing.

Still, Jack couldn’t help but pick up his phone to study the photo again, trying to convince himself that he was mistaken, that Kent didn’t actually look _that_ happy. 

But he did, and Jack remembered a time when Kent had that same expression when he looked at him. The Christmas before last, Kent had been wearing an identical smile as he gazed at Jack, in almost an identical pose with his fingers wrapped around his wine glass. His face had been softened by candlelight, and he didn’t wear his hair slicked back at that point, so wisps of gold had gently framed his face. He’d been breathtaking, especially since he’d been solely focused on Jack.

Warmth still pooled in Jack’s stomach at the memory, but it quickly drained away. Because seeing Kenny look that way at someone else was just—was just— _irritating_. Since he now had to worry about all the guilt trips and manipulations Kent would use to trap them. 

Forget Kent. Jack needed to concentrate on the immediate improvements their team desperately required in order to have even a halfway decent season. Their defense was absolute garbage—he should instruct their coaching staff that their prospect search needed to concentrate on D-men first and foremost.

Still, his thoughts kept drifting back to Kent and how utterly at ease he seemed to be with Chara. It probably didn’t help that Chara himself was a defenseman.

But it was just two hockey captains having dinner together. They probably weren’t even friends.

* * *

A pattern of sorts developed, which Jack only recognized after Kent ended his third visit with him, slamming his dorm door and storming off without saying goodbye. 

“Don’t say it,” Jack ordered Shitty, whose disapproving gaze he could feel resting on him.

“No, you should probably hear this,” Shitty said calmly, bookmarking his spot in his Maya Angelou biography so he could give Jack his full attention. “You’re my friend, but Christ, you can be such an utter dick.”

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Shitty held up a hand. 

“That’s it. That’s my assessment on the matter. I’m not looking for your commentary. You decide if you want to do something to change my mind.” 

And Jack tried. He tried to summon some kind of snappy retort, a pithy response that would summarize just how much of a bastard Kenny could be, how he’d trapped Jack and tricked him. How he was still trying to do that now.

Because back when they were in Juniors, when they were Zimmermann and Parson, the incredible duo ready to take the NHL by storm together, Kenny was Jack’s _everything._ He was his liney, sure, and the second half of their power plays, definitely, but he was so much more than that. He was a bridge between Jack and other people, reaching out to them so that Jack didn’t have to, since he didn’t know how to. He was Jack’s confidant, who listened to him and reassured him and put his fears to rest. He was Jack’s distraction, always trying to take Jack’s mind off of his problems, with either sex or a movie or a massage or just a couple of beers and Jack’s Xbox. He’d billeted with Jack and his parents for two years, and during that time, he’d become closer to Jack than anyone else ever had, worming his way into Jack’s thoughts even when Jack knew all he should be thinking about was hockey and how to do better and be better.

For a time, Kent had been the person Jack relied on. The person he trusted. The person he thought he could depend on to see him through thick and thin.

And then he’d stepped over Jack’s prone body on the bathroom floor, unwilling to let something so trivial as Jack’s overdose stop him from entering the NHL and snagging his spot as top player.

When Jack needed him most, Kent had turned his back and left him behind. Now, Jack refused to accept his charity whenever Kent deigned to visit. If Kent thought Jack still needed him now, Jack wanted to prove him wrong.

Once, Kent had done everything for Jack. And him coming back to Samwell again and again was proof that he still wanted to, that he thought he could still fix Jack’s life, even though they’d been out of contact for the two prior years.

But Jack didn’t need him. Not anymore. His refusal to take Kenny’s calls for weeks at a time back when he was in rehab should have driven that message home. Kent continuing to come here, continuing to act like Jack wanted him or needed him—it was just manipulative. It was like he was trying to force himself into Jack’s life, and Jack _did not_ want him there. 

But he couldn’t explain all of that to Shitty. It wouldn’t make sense. It barely made sense to Jack.

So, hours later, he found himself again analyzing Kent’s internet timelines, checking to see what he did immediately after leaving Jack. While it felt vaguely like stalking, Jack insisted to himself that it wasn’t. After all, he only wanted to keep tabs on Kent because he needed to reassure himself that Kent wasn’t going to spring up in front of him whenever Jack rounded a corner. It wasn’t like he was watching Kent to be weird or because he found it hot or anything like that. He just wanted the assurance of predicting Kent’s movements, the certainty of knowing where Kent was and who he was with, and he wanted all of that because he didn’t want Kent at Samwell, not at all. 

Maybe there would be another picture of Kent with Chara. When he’d visited last time and Jack sent him packing, Kent had obediently vanished with his tail between his legs, only to pop up a few hours later on Instagram, taking a photo with Chara at some kind of high-class modern art exhibit. At least they’d both been looking at the camera that time, instead of Kent gazing adoringly at Chara.

Not that it bothered Jack for Kent to look at someone else that way. Kent could screw whoever he wanted and probably frequently did. Jack didn’t care.

Pulling up Kent’s Instagram, which he now had bookmarked on his phone, Jack impatiently waited for the photos to load, cursing his dorm’s molasses-like wifi speed as he did.

Everyone always complained about the slow wifi at dorm meetings, and their RA always assured them that she was relaying all of their complaints to IT. Personally, Jack hadn’t ever taken notice of the issue, even when Shitty ranted about it. But as he waited for the new pictures Kent had posted to load, every extra second seemed agonizing for a reason he couldn’t even name.

Finally, the photos appeared in full, and Jack snatched up his phone, scrolling furiously to examine each new one. He was familiar enough with the Boston area to recognize the setting instantly—it was the city’s Public Garden. Those swan gondolas in the background of that one photo of the suspension bridge gave it away. There was the ubiquitous photo of the Washington statue, one of Kent smiling with a couple of fans, and then—Jack’s breath caught in his throat— _several_ of Chara and Kent together. 

One was of them standing by the pond with a couple of bikes, the one Chara was holding no doubt his own, probably custom-built for his enormous frame. Another had them crouching down by the _Make Way for Ducklings_ statues, with Chara pretending to hold one and Kent fawning over how tiny it looked in his huge arms. (Completely asinine, in Jack’s opinion.)

But the last one depicted the two of them at an honest-to-God picnic. Like, with a large spread of colorful food and an actual blanket. True, the blanket had a Southwestern pattern on it rather than being red and checkered, but still was so cliché it was sickening.

Kent had always liked Southernwestern patterns, Jack realized with a jolt. But Kent had no reason to bring his own blanket from Las Vegas to Boston. Had he given Chara a blanket as a gift? Or did Chara have Kent’s blanket for whatever reason? If Kent had given Chara his blanket, then what did that _mean?_

It might not have even belonged to Kent, Jack tried to reassure himself. Southwestern patterns were sold on the East Coast, after all. 

Still, the question and the uncertainty of the answer nagged at him, and once again he found himself desperately studying the photo, trying to absorb every detail. Chara was sitting on his side, one long arm propping himself up, looking at Kent . . . affectionately, Jack noticed, his stomach churning at the sight. And while Kent seemed to have just been giving Chara a quick glance, there could be no doubt of the fondness in his gaze, the small smile on his face that Kent only wore in private, preferring his trademark cocky smirk for all public photoshoots and media interviews.

Really, Jack only remembered Kent smiling like that at Jack himself, never anyone else.

That was when the realization of the pattern hit him. This was repeated behavior on Kent’s behalf, Jack realized. He was trying to generate a reaction from Jack. Kent would show up at Samwell whenever he had a game in Providence or Boston, and then when he couldn’t ensnare Jack again, he ran off to pal around with Chara. He was using Chara, trying to get back at Jack, prove to him that he didn’t need him.

Waste of effort on Kent’s part, then. Jack already knew they didn’t need each other. Kent had done just fine without him in the NHL, getting the Calder and the Art Ross during his rookie season. And Jack certainly didn’t need him. He was a shoo-in for team captain of the Samwell hockey team next season.

How pathetic. Kent’s behavior was absolutely pathetic. And _using_ Chara like that? Solely to provoke Jack? It was pretty appalling. To think Shitty was convinced that Jack was the one with no sense of decency.

Maybe Jack should call Chara and let him know. It would only be the right thing to do.

He didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine if Jack did make the call. Like, imagine you've recently started dating someone new, and then their ex calls to tell you your relationship with that new person isn't real and is all just a ploy to get back at the ex. How do you even react to that?
> 
> Also, I have no factual evidence that Chara's favorite statue in Boston would be "Make Way for Ducklings", but I have now managed to convince myself that it would be.
> 
> Another also: I'm on [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk about it, or just talk about Kent in general.
> 
> Oh, and feel free to let me know if there's any tags for this fic that you think you should be added. I wasn't quite sure how to tag this one, so I'm more than open to suggestions.


	2. Chapter 2

Again and again, Kent returned to the Haus, which only surprised Jack the first time. Kent could be more stubborn than was good for him, and he never seemed to realize it. He honestly seemed to think that he could change Jack’s mind and have him sign with the Aces—he seemed to think if he could convince Jack of that, then he’d be absolved of his selfishness for leaving Jack behind in the first place.

But Jack didn’t plan on letting him off the hook that easily, so even as much as he didn’t appreciate Kent’s visits, he always made sure to give Kent just the slightest tidbit of hope, just enough to keep him coming back for more. 

Not only did Jack enjoy the consistency of it, but he liked the idea that even if Kent had an NHL career and multiple awards that he didn’t, at least he held this power. It was comforting to know that even when he’d lost control over the rest of his hockey career, he still had some control over Kent.

* * *

By sophomore year, Kent hadn’t stopped visiting Jack. He also hadn’t stopped visiting Chara, which Jack meticulously tracked using Kent’s online presence. It was a short, ongoing cycle: he appeared on Jack’s doorstep like a stray cat that was too stupid to understand it wasn’t wanted and wasn’t going to score any table scraps, Jack eventually lost patience when Kent wouldn’t take the hint and go away, and then Kent ran to Chara and they did touristy Boston stuff together. The kind of stuff that mostly appeared on TV commercials for Boston tourism, but not anything anyone in real life actually seemed to do. No one else except for them. 

(It was part of the reason Jack knew their relationship was a fraud. No one actually spent that much time at different museums, and Jack was a person who legitimately enjoyed museums. Kent had never possessed the kind of academic mind capable of appreciating exhibits, anyway. 

_Maybe he’s faking it for Chara,_ an unhelpful voice in Jack’s head once suggested, and Jack had been so angry that he’d spent the entirety of the team’s game tape review with his jaw clenched and hands coiled into fists.) 

And speaking of stray cats, Kent and Chara actually found a kitten together at some kind of wine tasting or another. (They were both in suits. Kenny was in that light blue-gray suit that made his hair look like golden wheat and his eyes look like the ocean.) They took a photo of themselves—or, rather, someone took a photo of the two of them, because it wasn’t a selfie, and Jack was seriously beginning to contemplate if they just had a photographer regularly following them around—extracting a fluffy kitten from beneath a rose bush. Kent’s hands got scratched from the thorns, which he was certain to document on the Instagram. (Always a martyr. Always trying to make himself look good.) The story of his kitten rescue actually got a brief TV spot for the Boston news that barely clocked in at thirty seconds, during which Kent was sure to remind the reporter interviewing him that he didn’t rescue the kitten alone. Chara had helped. 

Reminding everyone—reminding _Jack_ —that he’d been routinely hanging out with Chara.

No one else seemed to understand that. They were all taken in by Kent and his new kitten, including the new D-men that Jack brought in for this year.

“What a good guy,” Birkholtz, the one with the big teeth, said as he grinned at the image of Kent cuddling his cat on the TV. “You always hear these stories about how the pros turn out to be total dicks in real life. ’Swawesome to see that Parson isn’t like that.”

The other one, Oluransi, who was a Bruins fan and wouldn’t shut up about it, was already obediently going to Instagram and following the account for Kent’s cat. 

“Kit Purrson,” he repeated, with that smile that said he’d already been thoroughly charmed by Kent and wouldn’t hear a word against him. It seemed unfair that Jack lived nearly three thousand miles from Kent and still had to see that smile. “God, that’s almost too cute. Clever, too.”

Jack just thought it was plain narcissistic. 

Birkholtz was now also scrolling through one of the Instagrams. Kent’s, his cat’s, whichever. “And wow, look at all this time he’s been putting in at the animal shelter! He’s made it the main Aces charity of the season!”

Oluransi chuckled. “Did you see that picture of him and Chara cuddling those puppies together?”

Birkholtz cracked up, lifting his phone for them both to see. “How about this one, where he’s trying to convince Jeff Troy to hold a chinchilla?”

Unable to stomach any further praise for Kent, Jack left the living room in favor of grabbing his phone and exiting the Haus. Maybe he’d go down to the lake, snap a few pictures of the ducks. Maybe he’d get an Instagram for himself and some piece of arm candy to run and cry to whenever Kent upset him. And then he’d document every damn one of their dates and meals and animal rescues and spam it all over the place online for the whole world to see, so Kent could know what it felt like to see photo after photo of Jack with someone else. 

Almost the instant the idea appeared in Jack’s mind, he dismissed it. It was tempting, sure, but spending so much time with another person sounded like a lot of work, and not the kind he liked, even if it would serve to give Kent his due comeuppance. 

But someone really needed to take Kent down a peg and show him that it wasn’t okay to hurt people and use people as easily as he did. It would be one matter if Kent genuinely did enjoy being around Chara and spending time with him, but it was just painfully, transparently obvious that the only reason he gave Chara the time of day was to screw with Jack.

Still, Jack did appreciate the certainty of the pattern. He didn’t handle ambiguity well, and movies and books with those open-ended conclusions unsettled him for days. It was kind of nice, as much as seeing Kent at any point could be nice, to be able to predict when he’d be turning up at Samwell. 

But while Kent was predictable, those two new D-men weren’t.

Heated, furious words were still hanging in the air when the Haus’s screen door clattered closed behind Kent as he departed from his latest sojourn to Samwell. While Jack hadn’t wanted to say any of them, there had always been something about Kent that forced his hand, forced him to take action he didn’t want to, forced him to be someone he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with being.

The engine of whatever ridiculous sports car Kent had driven up in this time purred to life before deepening to a roar as he raced away. The vibrations seemed to rattle the entire Haus from foundation to attic, as if it all might come crumbling down in Kent’s wake.

Silence ensued for several heartbeats before Birkholtz cleared his throat, tearing his gaze from Oluransi’s. They’d been sitting at the kitchen table throughout the entire argument, glancing at each other with wide eyes in between looking from Kent to Jack as they took turns launching verbal grenades at one another. But the two of them had only been gaping at each other ever since Jack screamed at Kent that the only Christmas miracle he ever wanted was to never have to see Kent again in his life.

(Bob and Alicia had invited Kent to Christmas dinner with them that year. Ostensibly, Kent was at the Haus to check in with Jack to make sure it was okay, but Jack knew better. Kent was there to rub the invitation in Jack’s face.)

It wasn’t like he meant it. Kent just pushed him into saying it.

(Jack would like to have another Christmas with Kent and his parents, with Kent gazing at him across the lit pillar candles, offering Jack bites of smoked salmon off of his fork. Still, Jack wasn’t sure if he could forgive the whole Chara deal. He wasn’t sure he could forgive Kent for messing with his head like that.)

Birkholtz blew out a breath as he turned to Jack, the rickety kitchen chair creaking beneath him. “So. Uh. That was a lot.”

The break in the tense silence seemed to spur Oluransi into speaking as well.

“Yeah, man, what the fuck?” he asked, looking at Jack, sounding legitimately curious. “An actual League guy shows up at our door, and you yell at him like that? What’s your problem?”

“ _He_ is,” Jack snapped, not actually wanting to be that honest but tired of everyone always acting like Kent was the victim. “Showing up here and expecting me to roll out the welcome mat for him must be permanently penned in on his schedule, it happens so often.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Birkholtz held up a hand, his jaw opening and shutting, looking like a nutcracker with those overly large teeth. “You’ve done that to him before?”

“Seriously?” Oluransi asked, staring at Jack in disbelief.

The front door clattered and Shitty strode in. “Can confirm,” he said, pushing a pair of sunglasses atop his head and sending a cool glance Jack’s way. “Kent Parson is a regular target that Jack uses to vent his frustration. I guess hockey isn’t enough of an outlet,” he said archly, his expression stony as he gazed at Jack. 

Jack ignored him. He always ignored Shitty when the topic of Kent came about. He had his reasons for treating Kent as he did, and he was sick of being criticized for refusing to share them. 

Weirdly, there was a distinct look of disappointment on Oluransi’s face as he turned back to Jack. “So, that’s your thing, then? Just . . . going off on people when they try to be nice to you?”

“He’s not ‘being nice’,” Jack replied, his hackles rising. “He’s being Kent.” 

He knew Kent, all right? He knew how he operated, how he set himself up to look all nice and charming, like he wouldn’t hurt a fly. It was all very careful and cultivated; Kent was an expert at engineering himself to appear friendly and likable. Jack was the only person who knew who he truly was.

“Uh, okay.” Birkholtz said, rising from the table. He was looking at Jack like Jack had just blown the championship game for them, and Jack didn’t understand why. “We’ve gotta go study. See you guys at practice. C’mon, Rans.”

They gathered up their books and sandwiches and were out the door before Jack could explain about Kent any further.

Frowning, Jack watched them go, before turning to Shitty. “What was that about?”

Shitty heaved a gusty sigh, the one he always used whenever he felt the question asked of him was far too simple to even warrant an explanation, and retrieved two beers from the fridge.

“Well, brah, let’s see,” he replied, settling himself into a chair and motioning for Jack to take the one across from him. “Because, maybe, you’re our captain, and you’re meant to be the one leading the team? And yet here you are, screaming at an old friend of yours, right in front of your teammates?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with _them,_ ” Jack argued. “Why should they care?”

Shitty rolled his eyes at him. “You specifically recruited them for the team,” he reminded Jack. “You. Personally. Because you were so worried about our defense. You’re our captain, they’re a couple of freshmen, and they committed to this school because of hockey. And now that they’ve witnessed the latest installment in your verbal blood feud with Parson, they’re wondering if they made the right decision, or if they’ve destroyed their futures by deciding to play on a team where their captain is someone who totally loses his shit on his friends for no reason at all and could potentially tank whatever opportunities the team might give them.”

Jack just sat there. None of that had occurred to him. “Oh,” he said, blinking.

Shitty plunked down one of the beers in front of him, keeping the other for himself. “Yeah, brah,” he said, twisting off the cap of his own beer. “ _Oh._ ”

* * *

With Shitty’s help, Jack was able to rebuild whatever he’d had before with his new D-men and convince them to trust him again. Soon, Oluransi became Ransom and Birkholtz became Holster, and they started really listening to his instructions on the ice, attuning their play to his style and instructions. Every once in a while, he still caught one of them looking at him for a moment too long, as if they were trying to figure out what was going on inside his head, but he could ignore that.

What he couldn’t ignore was Kent, who was suddenly not appearing after nearby games. He also declined Jack’s parents’ invitation to Christmas dinner, which would have satisfied Jack if it wasn’t for checking his Instagram that day and finding a photo of him and Chara curled up on a couch together, evidently celebrating the holiday with one another.

The first time Kent didn’t visit the Haus after a game, Jack tried to rationalize it. Providence was forty minutes away, after all. Maybe Kent just didn’t want to make the drive. 

But then Kent stayed away after a Bruins game, too. And while Jack should have been grateful, honestly, happy that Kent decided to leave him alone, he couldn’t be. Kent hadn’t posted any pictures to the Instagram since before the game, and Jack couldn’t relax until he found out what his plan was, what he was trying to do. What, did he want Jack to be worried for him or something?

It worked better than Jack wanted to admit. He tossed and turned in his bed for three hours that night, unable to sleep. Finally, around two o’clock in the morning, he surrendered out of desperation, and reached for his phone to call Kent. 

The action marked the first time he’d reached out in any way whatsoever to Kent in years. The first time since back before the 2009 draft. 

The phone rang four times before Kent picked up. 

If Jack were an NHL captain, he would have answered before the first ring was even finished.

“Hello?” Kent’s voice was still fuzzy with sleep. 

Something low in Jack’s stomach twisted as the memory of a sleepy, cuddly Kent waking up beside him in bed and gazing up at him with a smile, the early morning sunlight playing on his hair, pushed its way to the front of his mind. 

“Hello?” Kent repeated when Jack didn’t respond, too preoccupied with memories. “Who the hell— _Jack?_ ” Alarm rose fiercely in his voice. “Are you okay? _Jack?_ Are—are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Jack managed to reply. “I just . . . I didn’t expect to hear your voice.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“ _You_ called _me_ ,” Kent pointed out, annoyance creeping into his tone and edging out the worry. “Who were you expecting? Fucking Taro Tsujimoto?” 

“Why didn’t you come by tonight?” Jack blurted out, the question eating away at him. “I was expecting you to drop in. You know. Like always.”

Another pause, and this time Jack could vaguely discern a background murmur, a deep voice that most definitely wasn’t Kent’s.

“Are you with someone?” Jack demanded reflexively, nearly stunned by the force of the anger surging through him at the thought.

Kent didn’t respond to Jack right away, instead prioritizing the other person in the room. “No, Zdeno, it’s okay. Go back to sleep,” Jack could distantly hear him telling the other person, probably holding the phone away from his face to speak.

 _Zdeno._ Zdeno. Chara’s first name began with a Z, didn’t it?

Before he could google it, Kent returned his attention to him. “What do you want, Jack?” He made no attempt to disguise the impatience in his voice.

“I—I—” Jack thought his mind might melt from the frustration of having far too many thoughts running through it at once but not being able to grasp onto a single one of them to form a coherent response. “I want to talk to you,” he burst out, his mind still filled with images of a sleepy seventeen-year-old Kent waking up in his bed, the warmth of his body pressing into Jack’s. “Please, just—-come and see me again. We can talk. I want to talk.”

Kent was silent for a moment, and then—

“Goodnight, Jack,” he said coolly, and then he hung up.

Jack didn’t let the abrupt end of their conversation deter him from bringing up Google on his phone and searching for Chara’s first name.

It had to be some other guy, right? Because all Kent was doing with Chara was using him for dates to make Jack jealous. Jack couldn’t picture him actually sleeping with the man. But two-timing him, going out to fancy restaurants and on idiotic picnics with him and then getting his kicks in someone else’s bed? That was Kent. That was _so_ Kent. He wasn’t sleeping with Chara. Not really. Chara probably meant nothing to him at all.

At least, that’s what Jack told himself as he waited for the astoundingly sluggish wifi to load the webpage. Jesus, he could probably go and buy a Boston newspaper, flip to the sports section, find out the answer, and get back to his dorm before he actually managed to get the information online. 

Then the page finally loaded.

It was the first result. _Zdeno Chara. Captain of the Boston Bruins._

“Goddammit!” Jack shouted, heaving his phone at the wall, where it shattered into several pieces at the force of the impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I was so encouraged by the warm reception this fic received last chapter, and I couldn't wait to get this next chapter out to all of you.
> 
> Also, in case you were wondering, Taro Tsujimoto is a fake hockey player invented by the Buffalo Sabres and then "drafted" to their team in an effort by their management to prove to the NHL how slow and cumbersome the draft process was back then. I like the idea that Kent knows the story and is so utterly bewildered by Jack's sudden call that this is the first name that drifts into his half-asleep mind.
> 
> So, Ransom and Holster have at least encountered Kent now, and Ransom is canonically a Bruins fan. Is there any doubt that they'll be enthusiastic supporters of Kentara (or Charson), much to Jack's chagrin?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I saw a post bashing Kent, and I guess that's the way to convince me to update my fics, because I'm adding another chapter. Hope you enjoy!

The very next day he bought a new phone, charging it to the credit card he’d had since he was a teenager. The explanation he gave to his parents was that he was helping out some new photography students with a project and accidentally dropped his old phone into the lake. It was a calculated fabrication, playing on their hopes for him to be happy and busy and making new friends, and he felt no guilt whatsoever about lying to them. Really, he was sparing their feelings by not telling them the truth about Kent—Bob had played with the Habs for most of his career and would probably be heartbroken to know that Kent was whoring himself out to a Bruin.

So. Jack had a new phone. Same number, though. Same contacts.

Which was why he really, really didn’t understand why Kent didn’t call beforehand and instead just strode right on into the Haus one afternoon as if he lived there.

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” Kent said, coming to a halt just a few paces away, his eyes gray as storm clouds. Maybe they looked that way because of the light gray suit he wore beneath his navy blue woolen trench coat. Jack thought the long coat made him look like some kind of Marilyn Manson reject. Senior year in high school, Alicia had bought Kent a sapphire - colored puffy ski jacket, and he’d looked much better in that. Much cuter. Much more approachable and familiar. Maybe he thought this coat made him look more adult. It didn’t.

“This isn’t a good time,” Jack informed him, because it wasn’t. He’d been giving Larissa, a sophomore recruited by Shitty to be the team manager, a tour of the Haus. She’d been offered a room and free board as an incentive to accept the position. 

Kent had the nerve to look offended at that, like he hadn’t just surfaced out of nowhere after skipping his visits for the last two games. “That so?”

“Yes,” Jack hissed out between gritted teeth, because Larissa was standing right there, glancing back and forth between Jack and Kent, and he knew, he just  _ knew _ she was trying to figure out what was going on. 

Larissa cleared her throat somewhat awkwardly, and Jack had to give her credit, because her voice was still reasonably confident. She wasn’t easily shaken, which was a good quality to have in a team manager, especially with their team.

“Is this a friend of yours, Jack?” she asked, looking at Kent with distinct curiosity.

“No,” Jack said immediately, because frankly, Kent wasn’t.

Larissa let out this little scoff of disbelief, like she thought Jack said the wrong thing, and Kent himself reared back a little bit, shock flitting across his face. And Jack didn’t really know why, because it was true. They weren’t friends. 

“I’m leaving,” Kent bit out.

“What?” Jack stared at him, his jaw clenching so tightly he thought it might snap. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

How could Kent show up here, acting like he was going to give Jack a chance, only to then reject him? Was he doing it deliberately to torment Jack? 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Kent spat back at him, his eyes seeming more blue than gray now and burning almost unnaturally bright in his face. “I’m clearly not wanted here.”

He turned to storm out the door like a petulant five-year-old, but Jack raced down the steps and grabbed his shoulder, whirling him around before he could step all the way outside.

“So that’s how it is, huh?” Jack demanded, adrenaline pounding through his veins. “You can’t stand to hear the truth?”

“It’s not—”

“It is,” Jack insisted, taking a vindictive pleasure in the momentary shock and hurt that flashed across Kent’s face. “Why is that such a surprise to you?”

Kent just stared at him. “You really think,” he began, his voice incredulous, “that I’d be coming back here time after time, taking whatever fresh insults you throw at me, if I didn’t consider us  _ friends _ ?” His voice cracked near the end. 

“Why  _ would _ you think we’re friends?” The question left Jack’s mouth as a sneer, but it was a completely legitimate query. He was honestly curious about why Kent had this notion of the two of them somehow spending the rest of their lives as tried-and-true buddies when every one of their visits ended with them yelling at each other.

There was a sharp inhale from behind Jack, and he whirled to look over his shoulder; Larissa was there, watching, her dark eyes huge in her face. 

But Kent, always needing the last word, drew Jack’s attention back to him. 

“I’m not coming back here,” he said quietly, his face unreadable. “Don’t you _dare_ goddamn ask me to ever come back. I’m so fucking tired of wasting my time on you when you never give a damn about anyone but yourself.”

With that last little petty barb, he twisted out of Jack’s grip and stalked past him, the screen door clattering behind him just like it had so many times before. There was yet another slick sports car slung along the front yard, and Jack could spy a couple of lax bros lurking nearby and shooting it furtive glances, as if worried their reputations would plummet for admiring anything vaguely associated with the Haus. 

Something low in Jack’s stomach contorted oddly at the sight of Kent opening the driver’s side door, but he couldn’t name what. While victory should have been pumping through his veins, triumph for finally laying out his clear feelings to Kent, letting him know what Jack really thought, he was also slightly disappointed that Kent walked away without a backwards glance. But then, Kent had always been pretty self-involved.

If Kent wasn’t so volatile, maybe they could have repaired their relationship. If he wasn’t so selfish and willing to reach for his career at any cost. If Kent weren’t so insistent that he knew what was right for Jack while trying to control him. If Kent weren’t screwing Chara and pretending to care about him just as a way to get back at Jack.

He never should have asked to see Kent again, Jack realized. Because when he’d done that, he’d just been giving into Kent’s machinations. He’d been surrendering. But he’d driven off Kent for now. And he could only hope that Kent stayed away for the rest of his college career.

That would be best, Jack decided then and there. Enough with playing straight into Kent’s hands. His earlier longing for Kent had been misguided, an old sentiment that had now outstayed its welcome. Forget Kent, he needed to focus all of his concentration where it mattered: his hockey team.

Just as he turned back to Larissa, deciding now might be a good time to escort her over to Farber, he realized she was already brushing past him to move out the door, just as Kent had.

He blinked. “Where are you going?”

“Away from here,” she replied flatly, and unlike Kent, she did cast him a backwards glance. Several of them, in fact, looking over her shoulder at him even as she strode determinedly away from the Haus.

* * *

“What the  _ fuck _ did you say to Larissa?” Shitty demanded from him as soon as he got back from his women’s studies seminar. 

There was an open history textbook on Jack’s desk (an examination of the politics of war throughout American civilization), but in a rare moment of distraction, he was ignoring it in favor of swiping through some photos on his phone. They had passed through a significant portion of rural area during their last roadie, and Jack was able to capture some shots of the rural landscape at dusk on their way back. While the composition was amateurish thanks to shooting from a moving vehicle, he found himself proud of the content all of the same. The sight of the dark silos standing tall against the dusk sky filled him with a strange type of simultaneous yearning and yet contentment.

Reluctantly, Jack placed his phone on his desk and turned to face Shitty, whose jaw was clenched and form rigid with tension. When Shitty got into these kinds of moods, Jack found that the simplest solution was to give him his full attention and attempt to listen to him, even if he didn’t prioritize whatever he had to say. Admittedly, Jack didn’t bother with the path of least resistance very often, but since Shitty was an open book when it came to emotions, it was better to attempt to placate him than cope with the team noticing and then trying to detect the source of Shitty’s discontent.

“What’s wrong with Larissa?” Jack asked mildly, keeping eye contact and trying to make his expression earnest. It was a struggle, since he was vaguely annoyed at the interruption. 

“You tell me,” Shitty shot back. “I had her all primed to take this job, and she really wanted it because she couldn’t get another work-study. Now she’s texting me about not wanting it at all. What did you say to her?”

It was irritating, Jack found, having everyone constantly assuming he was the villain where Kent was concerned.

“I didn’t say anything to her,” he informed Shitty coldly, dropping his attempt at good faith. “I don’t know what she’s upset about, and frankly, if she can’t handle listening to me tell it like it is to someone else, then she’s probably not the right fit for organization, anyway.”

For a moment, Shitty paused to absorb what Jack had said, his gaze shifting to the side as he concentrated, then flickering to Jack’s face again. Then realization seemed to surface, his eyes widening, his mouth grimacing. 

When Shitty spoke, his voice was very quiet. “Would I be wrong in my guess that Kent Parson put in a visit to the Haus today?”

Honestly, Jack didn’t want to respond. Nothing but evidence or manifestation of the Madonna-whore complex could send Shitty into lecture mode quite like Jack’s attitude about Kent Parson.

Unfortunately, Shitty took the silence spooling out between them as confirmation, and he sighed, sounding more exasperated than anything else. “Why would he show up here all of the sudden?” he asked, studying Jack. “When he stopped coming around, I was happy for him. I’d assumed he’d gained too much self-respect to put up with the way you act around him. Why’d that change?”

Jack’s annoyance surged. “I don’t act any particular ‘way’ around him,” he insisted. “I just get sick of him acting like he’s God’s gift to hockey. And I just want him to know—well—”

He floundered wordlessly for several moments, and then it occurred to him that he didn’t actually have words for what he wanted Kent to know. Was it that Jack still thought of him as a sleepy seventeen-year-old awakening in his bed? Was it that Jack knew he was onto him about Chara? Was it that he no longer considered Kent a friend? Kent seemed to have received that message loud and clear, even if he had acted like a child about it. 

“There must have been a reason,” Shitty said slowly, his eyes boring into Jack’s. “He wouldn’t just suddenly appear.”

“Well, he did.” Jack relished in revealing that to him, to prove that Kent held more of the blame, that his reaction hadn’t been unwarranted. “After one phone call, he thinks that he can waltz right in.”

Satisfied, Jack prepared to rest on his laurels of winning the argument, but Shitty just sighed again.

“Please tell me,” he said in a distinctly disappointed tone, “that you did not invite him here specifically so you could then scream at him and turn him away, freaking Larissa out in the process.”

“I didn’t invite him!” Jack tried to tell him. “I just—I wasn’t expecting him to show up at all!”

_ “Jack.” _ Shitty gave him a look so crushed it was as though Jack had just permanently ended someone’s career on the ice, like he was goddamn Todd Bertuzzi.

“I didn’t!” Jack repeated, his voice rising for emphasis, his irritation surging as Shitty’s expression refused to recede.

Shitty exhaled deeply, turning a tired gaze on Jack. “Listen. I want you to know this. Most of the time, I’m proud to call you my friend, teammate, captain, designated not-stoned-person, whatever. But Kent? For whatever reason, you can’t control yourself around him. And it makes things weird, man. Not just for me, but for other people. Holster, Ransom, and now Larissa. So I’m going to ask you two things. One: stop inviting Kent to hang out with you when it’s clear it never ends well.” He held up a hand to stifle Jack’s protests. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’ll admit that you didn’t know he was going to show up those other times. But you had to know that he’d show up this time. I don’t buy that you’re that oblivious, Jack, not where Kent is concerned.”

Jack gritted his teeth and waited for Shitty to finish. 

“Two.” Shitty caught Jack’s gaze, locking eyes with him. “You go make things right with Larissa. I know you don’t feel that anything with Kent is your fault, so feel free to just say you have a blindspot where he’s concerned, or even just actually apologize for what you said. Whatever. But we need a manager, and she needs a job, and I want her to feel like she’ll be okay if she accepts the position.”

“In other words, you want me to apologize to  _ her _ for what I told  _ Kent?” _ Jack challenged him.

But Shitty didn’t back down. “I want you to show her that you can be a good guy, Jack. Because I have every faith that you  _ are _ a good guy. Whatever you have with Kent—that interferes sometimes, but it doesn’t change who you are.” He gazed at Jack with a strange mix of pleading and commanding. “Please go find Larissa and apologize so she’ll reconsider taking the manager position. She really needs this job.”

Not a half hour later, Jack found himself trekking into one of the older art buildings, the older, non-refurbished one where most freshmen and sophomores took their classes but somehow was always left out from campus tours for prospective students. According to Shitty, Larissa could often be found there after hours, and the advice proved accurate; Jack located her in one of the practice studios. 

Not bothering to knock, he simply thrust the clear glass door open and trudged inside, spotting the flash of annoyance on Larissa’s expression but not allowing that to dissuade him. So what if she didn’t want him here? He didn’t want to be here, either. 

“Hey,” he greeted her, deciding he might as well be the one to start the conversation. At least he might be able to say what Shitty wanted him to say before Larissa threw him out. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for earlier. For my conduct. That’s not . . .”

_ Me, _ he was going to say, but fuck if he wasn’t tired of being expected to apologize for himself wherever Kent was concerned.

“My approach to handling the team,” he said instead. “What you witnessed was an anomaly. I don’t treat my guys that way. And I wouldn’t treat you that way.” Not if she was halfway competent, at least.

One of Larissa’s eyebrows quirked at that, and she folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, really?” she asked, in a tone that made it quite evident that she wasn’t actually asking for clarification. 

“Yeah,” Jack replied, because what did she actually want from him here? He was apologizing just like Shitty had asked, but Larissa didn’t seem at all convinced.

“Hmm,” was Larissa’s only response, and she narrowed her eyes, studying him.

Uncomfortable under the weight of her scrutiny, Jack broke eye contact and shifted his gaze to the wall behind her. The colorless cement reflected his gray mood and overall lack of enthusiasm for the situation at hand, and even as he glanced from the various vivid paintings on the wall, abstract messes of colors and shapes, he couldn’t find any way to bolster his spirits beyond reminding himself that this entire awkward situation would be over soon. He’d probably be able to walk out of this building five minutes from now. He tried to visualize it, to remind himself that it was still attainable. 

“Why are you here?” Lardo asked eventually, the question more curious than combative. “I mean, you obviously don’t want to be. Do you really expect me to believe that the big bad hockey captain cares what some art major, one he doesn’t even know, thinks about him?”

For a moment, Jack hesitated, tempted instinctively to lie, but then he just shrugged, not having the energy to concoct a creative cover story. “Shitty asked me to,” he told her eventually. “And he . . . I’d do nearly anything for him. So I figured finding you and telling you I’m sorry for being a dick was within boundaries.”

Though he wasn’t sure what Larissa would think of the admission, she softened as he spoke. 

“You’re good friends with him, aren’t you?” she said, more of a remark than a question. “It’s always good to see someone who will stand by his friends.” But then a frown creased her forehead again. “Tell me something: if I did accept the position, how often would that one guy in the trench be coming around for you to have another blowout argument with him? Because, listen, if I wanted to hear two people constantly fighting with each other, I could just turn on any shitty reality TV show that makes me despair for the sorry state of its audience to want to watch it in the first place. God knows TLC has enough of them.”

“If I can help it, Kent will never be coming around,” Jack promised her and himself as well.

Surprise flitted across Larissa’s face as his vehemence, but she didn’t seem put off by it. 

“Treating the cause, but not the symptoms, huh?” she asked wryly, and then she sighed. “What the hell. I’ll take this job.” But then her gaze snapped up to look at Jack directly. “But I swear to God, if you ever treat me like how you treated that Kent guy, I’m handing in my resignation that second. I don’t care if I get stranded in the middle of—I don’t know, the fucking Utah desert—I won’t put up with it.”

“I wouldn’t strand you in Utah,” Jack informed her, almost smiling. “But no promises about someplace like Connecticut.”

She gave him a smile for the first time since watching the argument between himself and Kent. Jack said his goodbye and walked back to the Haus to tell Shitty the team now had a manager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Really, he was sparing their feelings by not telling them the truth about Kent—Bob had played with the Habs for most of his career and would probably be heartbroken to know that Kent was whoring himself out to a Bruin."
> 
> I just want you all to know that out of all Jack's supremely salty lines, this one was one of my favorites. I do kind of like the idea of Jack trying to smear Kent to his parents by presenting this story to them, though--I love to picture their reactions. 
> 
> Hope everyone has a safe and lovely holiday! Take care!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kind words and comments on this fic so far! I'm always amazed that others have boarded this rare ship with me. I really appreciate all of the support, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

With the help of Larissa (who was quickly re-christened “Lardo” by the residents of the Haus), the team was more organized than ever, and some of the managerial responsibilities that had fallen on Jack’s shoulders now could be delegated to her. Initially, he’d anticipated that it would be a sorely needed relief. 

Finally, he’d thought, someone else to take up team duties and worry about arranging tutors for team members at risk of being disqualified thanks to academic eligibility standards. At long last, another person to handle the community outreach programs that the team was expected to perform and organize the dates and events. And after an eternity of dealing with clashes on campus between teammates and both staff and other students, some other poor slob got stuck dealing with it. With all of these duties shifted away from Jack, he was free to concentrate on planning for the future of his career, or pursuing his photography, or at least, focus fully on his game without any pressing distractions.

But instead, Jack merely found that the extra time in his schedule was being frittered away as he resumed an old pastime with gusto: following Kent and Chara’s love life. Now, however, more people beyond Jack were noticing, and it had become somewhat more complicated to follow the various developments of their relationship as more and more fans became aware of their closeness and misinformation spread like wildfire. And Jack could watch the reactions online like some kind of theatrical drama unfolding before him.

See, back during Kent’s second season with the Aces, fans had started regularly spotting him waltzing around the Boston area, not in the least because Kent was utterly in love with himself as well as any person who’d so much as give him the time of day. With attention and adoration being his narcotic of choice, he would stop and take pictures with anyone who looked at him twice, whether they actually recognized him as a hockey player or not. And since Kent encouraged fans to tag him in their posts so he could retweet them, his presence in Boston was then regularly broadcast to all of his social media followers. 

So, while Aces fans were wondering why Kent was so often in Boston, Boston fans were constantly on the lookout for the Aces captain who might be visiting their city. Forget Jagr Watch—2011-2012 was the year of Parson Watch. And then, as Kent entered his fourth season, his time in Boston only increased, and rumors of him transferring there started to surface and then multiply.

Vegas responded to their star player’s regular trips to northeast by, as Holster once ever so eloquently described it, “promptly losing every iota of their shit and never regaining a single scintilla of it.” Maybe it was because the Aces were Nevada’s only pro sports team, maybe it was because they’d grown attached to Parson, who’d won them a Cup his rookie season and then in 2012 as well, but Kent’s travels had Aces fans in a constant uproar. A tsunami of paranoia swept through them that the reason for Kent visiting Boston was because he was planning on signing with the Bruins. And once that rumor got started, online debates raged more intensely than a nuclear war could ever hope to, complete with fear-mongering unseen since the Cold War, all focusing on if Kent was staying in Vegas or going to Boston. 

During one of his visits, Kent posted a selfie to his Instagram of himself and Chara having drinks together at the upscale bar of the Langham Hotel. Rather than enthusing about Kent’s fashion sense or waxing poetic about how easygoing and friendly he was (as Aces fans typically did in comments on Kent’s social media pages, Jack had often observed in annoyance), their ensuing meltdown was only matched by the Vancouver riots back from when Kent won the 2010 Olympics for Team USA. The photo’s comments were promptly inundated with demands that he reveal if he was signing with the Bruins or not, often accompanied by insistence that he “owed” fans an explanation for his actions. 

It reached the point that NHL Network did an actual segment at the next home Aces game, featuring numerous Aces fans (of varying levels of sobriety) tearfully expressing how much Kent Parson meant to them, how deeply they loved him, and how much they hated the Bruins for trying to steal him away from them (despite no evidence that the Bruins had done so). 

Jack knew these details because he’d been in the Haus’s living room with a few teammates when the interviews had first aired. Holster and Ransom had been watching, bursting into laughter each time an Aces fan, from a burly biker dude to a duo of teenage girls in Uggs and leggings, proclaimed their love for Kent and hate for Boston. 

“Well, I’ll say this about Vegas,” Ransom said, cracking up as a father of four, his teenage sons looking on concernedly, practically sobbed onscreen at the thought of Kent leaving the team. “One thing Aces fans and us Bruins fans have in common? They’re both fucking lunatics. Just _ look  _ at this shit. Parson told everyone he’s not going anywhere! Like, ten times already!”

Holster chortled as well, taking a swig of his beer. “Right? I can’t believe an expansion team has this devoted of a fanbase. Bettman’s dream has come true, I guess. But come on, you’d be lucky to have a marriage these days with a fucking tenth of this passion!”

After the interviews aired, a Twitter war broke out, with Bruins fans responding to Aces fans’ vocal resentment of them with disdain and insults of their own. Aces fans retaliated, and a short-lived rivalry was born that day, a rare one that only existed between hockey fans themselves and not the actual teams or players. 

But that was Kent. Able to tear people apart with just a hypothetical, his actual presence not even required.

In fact, the question of if Kent was going to sign with the Bruins spawned an official meme, one that became so widespread that even if someone knew nothing else about hockey, they were at least in on this joke. From that point forward, whenever Kent was spotted in another city, be it because he was vacationing or there for an official game, fans would snap a photo and jokingly include a caption wondering if he was going to sign with the local NHL team. If the city had no team, fans would claim that Kent was obviously there to start one. It became the “in” activity to remark on any of Kent’s non-Vegas photos that he would no doubt soon be moving to the city or town in question. He’d once joined Jeff Troy for Christmas, travelling back with him to Troy’s home of Milk River, Alberta. After posting a selfie, his comments section were filled with jokes that the tiny town with a population of just over eight hundred people would be the site of the NHL’s latest expansion team, with Kent as its first member.

But for Vegas, it was no laughing matter. They loved Kent (to an unhealthy degree, in Jack’s opinion) and were possessive of him. It was their worst fear to lose him to another team. He was their hero, their golden boy, the favorite son of their city.

He was to Vegas, Jack conceded reluctantly, what he had once been to Jack and his family.

Throughout all of the fans’ antics, Jack watched with interest and amusement. He’d never considered himself someone who lived vicariously through celebrities and had always considered both the gossip rags at the checkouts and their faithful readers fairly pathetic. 

But now that Jack knew the subject of all the drama, he was willing to admit that he found it quite . . . not  _ entertaining, _ per se, but just captivating. Maybe it was a type of camaraderie, a shared experience with the fans of being riled up by Kent Parson, a type of empathy, but he found their reactions fascinating. Several times he’d caught himself scrolling through Twitter during a class, eager to see the latest batch of outrage from the Aces fans at the prospect of Kent leaving them, and the irritation of the Bruins fans for thinking they would want him.

Nevertheless, Kent shot the rumors dead in the water the next time he had a game against the Bruins. 

“Your continued presence in Boston has certainly stirred up strong feelings in your fans,” some ESPN talking head remarked to Kent during a post-game interview. “Do you have any thoughts about their enthusiasm and their reluctance to see you play for any other team?”

Fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, Kent chortled. “Enthusiasm is one way to put it,” he said, flashing his brilliant smile that still somehow stirred something in Jack’s chest, and the various reporters chuckled. 

“But no,” Kent went on, growing slightly more serious. “I do have something to say.” He looked directly at the camera, smiling, but took a moment to brush back his matted hair from his forehead, a nervous habit from his teenage years that media training hadn’t quite managed to smooth out of him. “Zdeno—Chara—he and I are dating. We’ve been official for a couple of months now, and we’ve been keeping it quiet, but we both feel like now is the time. You’ll probably hear the same thing from him tonight, so Aces fans, Bruins fans, this is your Christmas Eve ceasefire. Put away your weapons and rejoice, because I’m not going anywhere. I’m just in love.”

Idly, it crossed Jack’s mind that  _ he’d _ been the one who taught Kent about the World War I Christmas Eve ceasefire. And now it had been used to describe the circumstances of Kent fucking someone else. 

In love.  _ In love. _ The words echoed in Jack’s mind, bouncing around his brain even as he tried to drive them out. He sat there on the couch, his jaw clenched so tight it strained his teeth, as Ransom and Holster simply gaped. Then they looked at each other and exploded into huge guffaws and mindless chatter. 

“Big Zee! I can’t believe it—”

“All this time, the Aces have been bitching about the Bruins stealing him away! Turns out he’s just been getting some solid dick from Chara—”

“Solid? I’ll bet it’s fucking  _ all-consuming. _ Like, the opposite of a black hole, because it’s, you know, solid, but it’s also fucking massive—”

Jack didn’t bother stifling a huff of annoyance, knowing they were too wrapped up in themselves and each other to pay him any attention. While tempted to make a snide comment about Kent’s choice in partners, he resignedly realized that not only would it fall upon deaf ears, but that now that Kent’s sham relationship with Chara was public knowledge, he might as well adjust, if reluctantly, to the idea that he now probably wouldn’t be able to walk into a Dunkin’ Donuts without overhearing gossip from random Boston denizens about their beloved hockey captain and his much younger, much smaller choice of lover. 

The morning, he shuffled downstairs to the breakfast table the next morning to discover Ransom and Holster marvelling over a heartfelt tribute to Chara and Kent from Bruins fans, who had evidently forgotten their previous antipathy for Kent. All was right in the world, it seemed—except for the black cloud that loomed over Jack for the rest of the day. 

* * *

Months crawled by. Kent didn’t visit. Didn’t call. Jack made the mistake of checking his stats once and found that he was on a twenty-two game point streak. The discovery had left him moody and withdrawn for the rest of the day, and an attempt by Ransom and Holster to cheer him up by recruiting him into playing Settlers of Catan ended in disaster.

The semester was dragging its way to a conclusion when Jack realized he didn’t _ want _ to go home to Montreal. He didn’t want to live in the house where he’d lived with Kent just a few years prior. By now it felt like an eternity gone past, distant and unreachable, but just the thought brought on a sharp stab of pain, like the wound was somehow still fresh. 

He made arrangements to stay at the school for the summer session, reasoning that someone needed to be around the Haus to make sure it didn’t burn down. And it was a breeze to apply for and secure the extra funding for paying the housekeeping staff to clean the Haus regularly during the summer, too. The most stressful part of the process was class selection, but Jack finally made peace with himself when it occurred to him that the classes themselves weren’t important to him as long as he was accepted onto the rosters. Regardless, he found himself automatically planning to clear out a few of his history classes for his major, and then picked a few other interesting ones on a whim, including an advanced photography class.

An unpleasant surprise awaited Jack when the regular fall semester began again and he had the opportunity to meet Samwell’s latest recruit for their hockey team: a former figure skater named Bittle. A former figure skater who _ couldn’t check _ . Couldn’t take them, couldn’t land them. 

Jack had to clamp down on his tongue to keep from screaming at the coaches when they introduced Bittle to the team. He knew he hadn’t been as on top of the recruitment as a captain should have been; he’d been preoccupied with recovering from Kent’s manipulations. But to dump this absolutely hopeless mockery of a hockey player onto his lap? It had to be a punishment. It  _ had _ to be.

Still, he had to give Bittle credit: every time Jack ordered him to the rink for an early morning weekend practice, Bittle was there. He might not have been anything remotely resembling an asset on the ice, but at least he was trying to become one. 

And Bittle was also . . .  _ sweet _ . Jack felt odd thinking of anyone that way, and he typically didn’t place any value on that particular trait. It was nice that people were nice, sure, but being nice didn’t help anyone win games. But somehow he found himself appreciating the trait in Bittle, even though all of those pies he baked and offered to the team were in flagrant disregard of the team’s diet plan. Even if Bittle was a sorry excuse for an actual player, at least he was devoted to his teammates. 

Something strange happened to him after a one-on-one Saturday morning with Bittle, though. He’d just exited the Faber rink and was on his way back to the Haus when Bittle came racing after him.

“Hold up a minute!” Bittle called out, and Jack decided it was worth his while to stop.

Halting, he wheeled around to find Bittle lugging a heavy-looking backpack and red cooler behind him.

“Yeah?” Jack inquired skeptically, raising an eyebrow at the items.

“Um.” Bittle’s face was red, but he looked directly at Jack when he spoke. “I fixed us a nice breakfast. For you, I mean, as a thank you for helpin’ me all the time.” He awkwardly indicated his backpack. “I was thinkin’ we could have a picnic? I brought along a blanket. I noticed you liked that spot down by the lake.”

At the word “picnic”, Jack’s mind instantly flashed to the picture of Kent and Chara eating together in the Public Gardens, the one that was nearly two years old. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Bittle recoiled slightly. “Uh, if you don’t want to—” 

While he’d never pictured himself as the kind of guy who went on picnics, suddenly Jack was seized by the need to spite Kent, or at least, to prove to himself that what Chara and Kent had done was nothing special.

“No,” he told Bittle brusquely. “It’s a good idea. C’mon, let’s have a picnic.”

He led the way down to one of the lake’s more private, secluded spots. Not the most private one, though—that one he was keeping his own secret, so that it was always available to him whenever he needed time to himself away from anyone who might try to bother him.

As he helped spread out the blanket and then unpack the cooler of its numerous varieties of quiche and biscuits and gravy, all Jack could think of was that he should be documenting this moment to post it later, start that Instagram arms-race he’d begun considering initiating with Kent. 

But then Bittle handed him a large slice of broccoli and mushroom quiche, and suddenly, the urge wasn’t quite so strong anymore.

“This sure is nice, isn’t it?” Bittle asked, filling a cup of coffee from the thermos and handing it to him. He glanced around at the lake, which was still, the water reflecting the morning’s bright blue sky and the red and gold leaves on the surrounding trees. “Thanks for sittin’ with me,” he said with a bright, genuine smile that seemed just very . . . endearing.  _ (Sweet.) _

As if on reflex, even though he was quite certain it _ wasn’t  _ a reflex, because Jack found himself smiling back, and for the first time in a long time, he felt . . . lighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long I've been wanting to write about the feud between the Aces fans and the Bruins fans. I had so much fun with that section. Also, I love the idea of the "Kent Parson starts a hockey team" meme becoming a viral phenomenon in the OMGCP universe.
> 
> I'm always up for conversation, so catch me on [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk!


	5. Chapter 5

Junior year seemed to slip through Jack’s fingers before he could even properly grasp it, and before he knew it, senior year was starting, with his NHL signing looming over him. Jack always half-expected Kent to surface again, to beg him to sign with the Aces, but Kent never appeared, and no offer from Vegas ever surfaced. It was because they’d won the Cup again that year, Jack told himself, struggling fruitlessly to suppress a surge of bitterness whenever he glimpsed the coverage. That was probably why. If Kent hadn’t taken the Cup, the Aces would have been clamoring for him on their team.

(Jack refused to think about if he would have considered them as a serious option, because he wasn’t sure of the answer.)

Still, once Jack put his name with the Falcs, he expected some kind of acknowledgement from Kent, maybe a congratulatory text or a phone call wishing him well. And it wasn’t because he honestly wanted to hear from Kent as much as he’d just come to expect to hear from him. 

But Kent never reached out. He didn’t seem like he was thinking about Jack at all.

His romance with Chara seemed to be continuing, judging from the photos on their Instagrams. They spent a disproportionate amount of time together for two people who lived on opposite ends of the country, and each time Jack saw on the Instagram that Kent had been in the Boston area for a game against Boston or Providence and had opted to spend the night with Chara rather than driving up to Samwell, it was as though slow-burning coals were simmering beneath his skin. 

By now, their relationship was a household conversation in all of New England, no doubt helped by the Boston media, who were, as always, rabidly devoted to their sports teams and insisted on meticulously documenting their stars’ love lives. Much to Jack’s irritation, he couldn’t turn on a TV or pick up a paper without being bombarded with photos of the couple’s latest date. Kent’s name, particularly in the Boston area, had become almost synonymous with Chara’s. Most students at Samwell knew Kent not by his own hockey accomplishments, not by his Calder, his Art Rosses, or by the three Cups he’d earned for his team, but by the fact that he was sleeping with the 6’9” Slovakian captain of their city’s NHL team. On the East Coast, the Las Vegas Aces were known mostly as “the team whose captain is getting dicked down by Boston’s captain.” 

Sometimes Jack wondered if it ate away at Kent, that he was becoming better known because of who he was fucking than because his own accomplishments. Most of the time, Jack fervently hoped that it did. 

Still, that didn’t mean he enjoyed accidentally overhearing Holster and Ransom’s speculation on their sex life as he sat at the Haus’s kitchen table, trying to do his homework.

“What do you think it’s like when they bang?” Holster wondered out loud, scrolling through his phone. He was probably looking at Kent’s Instagram. No doubt there was a new photo or several of Kent and Chara going on a duck tour or something equally moronic. 

Jack wouldn’t know. He hadn’t checked lately.

Ransom blew out a breath. “Dude. Chara’s legs? That kind of leverage? He probably takes Parson straight to pound-town.”

Holster grinned. “Takes him there through the railyard. So he can run a train on him.”

Ransom laughed. “Heaven must really be a place on earth, because Chara sent Parson directly to the boneyard. But Parson’s still here, somehow!”

“Here with a hands-on escort, complete with full room service,” Holster added, waggling his eyebrows.

Slamming his textbook closed, Jack grabbed his backpack and stormed out the door, stalking to the library instead. Once there, he managed to snag an unoccupied table in a quiet section with only a few other students around. He had just reassembled his books and his notes and was starting to settle into his work when a nearby phone buzzed and a girl at the table next to him squealed with delight.

“Oh my God, look at this,” she said, shoving her phone in her friend’s face. “It’s Chara and Parson! Look, they’re at the farmers’ market together!”

Jack cast a furtive glance her way and grimaced when he noticed she was wearing a Bruins sweatshirt. He should have noticed that before.

“God, I wish  _ I  _ could date Chara,” her friend, who looked like she could do much better, said with a wistful sigh.

“I wish _ I  _ could date Parson,” the first girl replied, and she  _ really _ looked like she could do much, much better.

There was something tragically ironic, Jack thought to himself bitterly, that he’d opted to attend Samwell to get away from Kent, but he was reminded of him wherever he went on campus regardless.

* * *

Shortly after winter break, an elegant cream-colored envelope with a wax seal arrived for Jack in the mail. Cautiously thumbing it open without checking the return address, Jack idly observed with gold foil lining but only made the connection when he glimpsed the whimsical typeface.

_ You are formally invited to “Party with the Parse” and “Bardownski with the Bruin” at the wedding of Kent Parson and Zdeno Chara. Ceremony to be held at 5:00 with reception, dinner, drinking, and especially dancing to follow. Please RSVP for yourself and your guest (optional) by May 1st.  _

He held the pearlescent cardstock in his hands for several moments to stare at it, the grain of the texture itching at his fingers and the stationary seeming uncommonly heavy in his grasp, leaving his wrist aching. But it was nothing compared to how the invitation strained his hand when he was finally able to stop staring and instead slide his gaze down to the vivid watercolor illustration beneath the text.

It was a painted version of that stupid photo of Kent and Chara by the  _ Make Way for Ducklings  _ statues, Kent and his sham boyfriend (now fiancé, Jack’s brain supplied unwillingly) immaculately rendered in art form.

So it had come to this, then. Kent was going to pretend like he would actually go through with marrying that poor sap. And he was inviting Jack there to taunt him, to prove to him that he’d moved on.

Jack gave the engagement a week, maybe two if he wanted to be generous. Kent’s attention was known to wander—look at how easily he’d left Jack behind when Kent went first in the draft. He’d run off to Vegas without even a backwards glance. No, he wouldn’t be able to keep the facade with Chara for very long—Jack was actually amazed Kent had kept up his con for as long as he already had. But then again, he’d remained focused on manipulating Jack for the better part of four years now, and his relationship with Chara was all a part of that, all a way of rubbing Jack’s face in the knowledge that he’d moved on, that he was having the time of his life in the NHL.

Kent would stop at nothing to prove a point to Jack, and the invitation resting heavy in Jack’s hand was proof of that.

* * *

The following day, Jack’s mother called, as she often did, just to check in with him. When he’d first started school, his parents would call every other day, rotating the schedule in between the two of them, just in case he felt like he could open up to one of them and not the other, he supposed. But now, when he’d demonstrated that he was reliable and not going to slip back into old habits, they only called once a week. 

Bob liked to chat about the projects his charity was either beginning or ending, but he was careful to limit his hockey talk, as if afraid a minute over the minimum amount would push Jack to another overdose. His mother usually was bubbling with enthusiasm over the location of her latest shoot or the latest roles she’d been offered, or thrilled about some new connection—a young up-and-comer actor, a stylist she thought was brimming with talent, or a director she thought might be the best match for her latest passion project.

(Both of Jack’s parents were good with people. In a matter of minutes, they could be the center of the room, charming the crowd, helping people feel valued and at ease. Jack had never shared those talents, but Kent had. No doubt it was a large part of why Bob and Alicia had been so drawn to Kent, why they hadn’t hesitated to make him their second son.)

The call between Jack and Alicia proceeded as usual, with Alicia asking about his classes and his teammates before excitedly telling him about a role she’d landed in a highly anticipated film adaptation of a psychological thriller novel. Then once that was through, the topic changed to one Bob and Alicia rarely discussed with Jack: Kent.

“Sweetheart, I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Alicia began, her voice very gentle. “Your father and I heard from Kent and . . . well. He’s—he’s getting married. To Zdeno. Chara. The Bruins captain.”

“I know,” Jack replied, trying to keep his voice even despite the automatic flare of resentment at Kent. “I got my invitation yesterday.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then Alicia asked, sounding very startled,  _ “You did?” _

“Yeah,” Jack responded, the single syllable sounding terse even to his own ears. He glanced at the invitation that was propped up in the corner of his desk so he could look at it frequently, even though each glance sent his blood pressure spiking. “I have the invitation here.”

“Oh.” His mother still sounded shocked, and she seemed to flounder for several moments before recovering. “Well, uh, you do know that . . . sweetheart, you do know that your father and I . . . agreed to act as Kent’s family, do you understand? With his family situation being what it is?” Her voice was both delicate and desperate. “And since we’re acting as the parents of one of the grooms, we’ll be expected to sit at the family table during the ceremony and the reception and . . . so on. That’s what we’ll be doing. I . . . I don’t know if you’d be interested—”

_ “No,” _ Jack stated emphatically, cutting her off.

“Oh, all right.” There was an insulting amount of relief in his mother’s voice, and then her tone perked up significantly. “So, do you need to find a new suit? Will you be bringing a date?”

Jack hadn’t even contemplated the question, but now that he did, a pair of warm brown eyes and a sunny Southern smile popped into his mind, even though he hadn’t anticipated it.

“I’ve got a suit. And the date . . . well, I’ll have to check and see,” he told his mother, surprising even himself.

* * *

“A wedding?” Bittle repeated, his eyes sparkling. “With you? I’d love to!”

“All right,” Jack said, satisfied. At least now he wouldn’t be the loser who turned up single at his ex’s wedding. “It’s here in Boston, just after finals end, so you shouldn’t even need to go home first.” He wasn’t sure if Bittle usually drove or flew back to the South, but it didn’t really matter, anyway.

“What’s the dress code?” Bittle asked eagerly. “Have you decided on a gift? Should I bring one? And, um, who’s the wedding for?”

Jack only had an answer to the final question, and he didn’t want to dwell on it. “The wedding is in the evening, so cocktail attire, I guess? I haven’t thought about a gift. I’ll figure out something. And the wedding is for Kent Parson.”

Bittle’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “The hockey player that Ransom and Holster like? The one who’s bang— _dating_ the Bruins captain?” he asked, blushing at his hasty correction. 

Even though he found it an accurate summation of Kent and Chara’s relationship, Jack ignored the belated word switch. “That’s right,” he said. “Kent was my teammate back in Juniors. He’s kept in touch.”

“Oh.” Bittle looked taken aback by the mention of Jack’s time in Juniors. It was a rarely discussed topic at the Haus, given that his overdose followed directly on its heels. 

Still, Bittle bravely soldiered on. “Do you think he and Chara are a nice couple? Ransom and Holster seem to think so.”

“I’ve never met Chara,” Jack replied flatly. “And do me a favor: don’t mention this to them, would you? This is more of a social obligation than anything else,” he added. Reluctant as he was to divulge any further information about his views on Kent, he knew he had to at least clue in Bitty if he didn’t want his planned presence at the wedding to be blabbed all over the Haus. “Holster’s main team is the Aces since he and Kent are both from that same meth-ridden part of upstate New York, and Ransom is obsessed with the Bruins. And I don’t want to have to deal with the two of them harassing me about going to the wedding of both their captains.”

Bittle grinned at him, happier than Jack could ever remember seeing him when he was in Jack’s general vicinity. “Don’t you worry,” he said conspiratorially, leaning in close to speak with him. “I’ll keep your secrets safe and sound. I won’t be lettin’ anyone be a bother to you.”

That was already a point in Bittle’s favor. Kent had been a bother to Jack all on his own. Then again, it wasn’t like Bittle’s lack of basic hockey skills didn’t come with its own laundry list of annoyances.

Still, when Jack glanced at the invitation the next time, he felt a little bit less irritated now that he had Bittle lined up as a date. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a filler chapter, and I apologize for needing to do that, but I had to find a way to bridge the timeline and get to the end of Jack's senior year. But next chapter will be the Kentara wedding, and I promise that's a long one. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you have a fantastic week! ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/) if you ever need more Kent content in your life. ❤️


End file.
